A World of Fault
by Kephiso
Summary: Greg Lestrade, Detective Sergeant, always goes to Tower Bridge on the last Friday of the month. But this time, there is something wrong: a man getting ready to jump...
1. The One at Fault

**Author: **Kephiso  
**Title:** A World of Fault  
**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Warnings:** Almost Suicide, AU  
**Pairing:** Mystrade  
**Summary:** Greg Lestrade, Detective Sergeant, always goes to Tower Bridge on the last Friday of the month. But this time, there is something wrong...  
**Notes:** This was written for this Monday Prompt: _When Lestrade was a police sergeant he talked a young man (mid 20s) out of jumping off Tower Bridge. That man was Mycroft Holmes._

My take on the story. There will probably be a sequel, but seeing as it is Saturday today, and this was a Monday prompt, I'm late anyway and I wanted to get this online. My first (semi-)completed fic in English, and my first prompt-fill!

Okay, I morphed this into a multi-chaptered fic. I estimate three or four chapters - depending on how long the next one will be.

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**The One at Fault**

_London Tower Bridge is something wonderful, _Greg thinks as he leans against the reeling and revels in the breeze that caresses his tired body. His shift at the police station has just ended, as the last lead he has been set on proved to be a false one, and, like every last Friday on the month, he has gone up Tower Bridge and takes in the magnificent city below him. _I'm pretty lucky to be living here,_ he realizes as he turns to leave, stifling a yawn.

He is one of the last visitors today, just like always actually, and except for a man near thirty the visitor's place is completely empty. Tired beyond believe and in his thoughts already at home – he really doesn't want to face Giselle now, not when he's had a rather good day – when suddenly a motion at one of the windows catches his eye. He stops, turns and freezes. The other man is standing on the edge, and for a moment he's unable to move, his mind blank.

_No!_, is his first thought, and then his body kicks back into action. He hurries across the room (almost too late), and yanks the man back from where he had been – apparently – getting ready to jump. The man stumbles, but Greg doesn't let go, steadies him as best as he can.

"Have you lost your mind?" he yells incredulously over the pounding of blood in his ears, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. "Tell me you didn't want to _jump_!"

The man looks at him out of dark, empty eyes. "What if I did?" he asks, unfazed as though he was asking 'What if I did buy milk?' and Greg is shocked for a moment. He has seen all kinds of people in his time with the police, but few have been so … suicidal and calm about it.

He scans the man, wondering what exactly has him brought to consider such an act. The man has light brown hair and dark brown eyes, is pale and has sharp features. Over all, he looks as though he has recently lost quite a few pounds – while his suit is looking pretty expensive, up close he can see that it is hanging a bit loosely in all the wrong places. The suit has made him look older, so Greg is surprised when he sees now that the man can't be older than twenty-five, closer to twenty-three or twenty-four. He looks like a man who has recently lost something of great worth – depression as a motivator? He can't say for sure, suicides (obvious suicides, at least) aren't usually his field of investigation.

He shakes his head, makes up his mind, and packs this unfortunate creature by his shoulder.  
"Come along, lad. I guess you'd need a drink, most of all." The 'lad', obviously unhappy of being called that, scowls, but follows readily enough. "And then you'll tell me, what exactly you thought you were doing."

"I don't think this is any of your concern, _Sergeant Lestrade_," the stranger emphasizes, and for a moment, Greg is taken aback. For one because of the tone used, and second, because he's sure he doesn't wear his ID where anybody can see it, and he has certainly not introduced.

"Don't look like this, Sergeant. It's hardly a mystery to me, who you are. I mean, look at you! In your nice little policeman dress and the immaculate tie… and your ID dangling out of your pocket," he sneers, letting Gregs ID dangle of his finger. So much to _dangling out of your pocket_.

"Give that back, lad," he sighs, too tired to pick a fight.

An inscrutable gaze later, he actually gets it back. "You can call me Mycroft."

It isn't a permission, more like a command, and Greg inwardly shakes his head. It's clear that this Mycroft usually has a bit of power on his hands, although at the moment there is only a shadow of it visible.

"Considering that my shift is over, feel free to call me Greg, Mycroft." What a strange name… _Mycroft_. Greg can't help but be intrigued – he has always had a liking for strange names, and this guy hasn't just a strange name, but also quite an interesting personality, it seems (if one omits his suicidal tendencies, obviously. But well… actually, that makes him even more interesting).

True to his word Greg takes Mycroft along in his police car, first to the police station, where they change into his own car, and then to Greg's favourite pub, where they serve excellent stew. Just the right thing after a very tiring day. The ride is mostly spent in silence, Greg glancing from time to time to his silent companion, and sad companion doing everything to avoid Greg's eyes.

"So," Greg says when they're finally settled at a table, "and now please tell me why you wanted to jump off Tower Bridge."

"It's none of your concern."

"Of course it's my concern, when I stopped you from jumping. Maybe I can help."

Mycroft looks him over depreciatory. "You? Maybe you should think about getting your own life right before attempting to do so with mine. You might start with apologizing to your wife for working so long this week, or else she'll be even more cross than she already is. You should also consider taking your daughter to the doctor; she has a cough that might be pneumonia. Your cat's got a reaction to something, probably its food, so buy some of higher quality, if you don't want it to suffer." Greg is dumb-struck by the man. How can he possibly know all of this?

"Do… do I know you? Have you known me before?" he asks, but he's not sure he actually wants to know. But as long as he looks so alive, almost happy, it's okay with him.

"I do not know, I _see_. I also see that you prefer coffee over tea, you like to read mystery-crime novels, you've got a good understanding of other people, which is why you consider becoming a detective inspector and leaving the rank of Sergeant behind you, you've got three cats, a bird, probably a canary, you've been married for about ten years, but not very happily.  
You've got two children, daughters, which you love very much, but whom you can't really connect ro, most likely because you work so much. You play rugby, like the team members, but you aren't good friends with most of them. You're an early riser, most likely, and you prefer to work in the mornings."

"Who'd tell you? You can't… you can't possibly _see_ all that, here!"

Mycroft lifts one eyebrow, before conceding, "Of course I saw that. That was all pretty easy. You wear your life all over your body."

"How?"

Mycroft heaves a sigh, as if to say _can't you see?_, but answers readily enough. "Your shirt. It's ironed, but not very carefully, as though the one ironing it were angry. You don't iron your shirts yourself, because you burnt yourself recently – just above the wrist of your left hand. So, who irons it, then? Your wife, most likely.  
Why would she be angry? Seeing as it's already half past nine, you have been working longer than usual. Your duty rota says you finished your shift at noon, but I think your colleague got ill, so you undertook his shift, too. Seeing as there is take-away in your police-car, I assume this isn't the first day of double shift. Why else would you take take-away from a Chinese restaurant that opens only at six o'clock?  
No wife likes her man being away all day for work. So you should apologize for that.

"There is a bit of mucus on your sleeve that looks like sputum usually associated with pneumonia; I recommend going to hospital tomorrow.  
There are pictures of both of your children in your car, but no pictures of your wife, so you love your children, but don't love your wife anymore.

"Three different kinds of cat hair are on your legs, but of one kind there is almost the triple amount, indicating an allergic reaction to something of the cat. Seeing as you have rather cheap food for them, a food reaction is most likely.  
On the picture of your elder daughter, there is a canary in the background, so it's safe to assume it's yours.

"There are coffee stains on your tie, but no tea stains, so either you've got no tea-pot, or you do not use it at work. Seeing as we're in London, it's unlikely there is no tea-pot at work, so you simply prefer coffee.

"There are several mystery novels in different states of used in your car, most with dog-eared pages and broken spines, so you obviously like to read those.  
In the backseat of the car you have your rugby gear, and a photo of your team has been lying on the passenger's seat before I sat on it and you put it away. The players on it seemed to be quite friendly toward you, but their body language said acquaintance, not friends.

"And again, your duty rota has your shifts all in the mornings, and while you're living in Bayswater as determinable from your rugby team, you still have to wake pretty early. But no one would have to work in the mornings all month if they weren't willing to, so you apparently have no problem rising early.  
Did I get anything wrong?"

Greg can only stare for a moment. "No. No. It was … perfect."

"Thanks." There is a satisfied glow in the young man's eyes, and Greg thinks the odds are in his favour now, so he decides to try again to get anything out of him.

"Now that you know so much about me, you could tell me a bit about you and why you wanted to jump."

At his words, however, Mycroft visibly deflates and draws his shoulders up, an unconscious gesture of defence. His good mood is gone, no trace of the enthusiasm left. For a few seconds he remains in this position, before realizing exactly what picture he's presenting (or at least Greg thinks that's what he realizes, but after this impressive feat of reading his _life_ from his clothes and appearance, he's not quite sure what's going on in this strange mind) and drawing himself up again.

"Tell me," Greg repeats, but Mycroft simply stares at him, face set in a stony mask. But Greg, sensitized from years of working with criminals, can see the war waging on behind the dark eyes. Well, he can stare right back. Probably for a longer amount of time than this youngster, no matter how intimidated he feels by the other one reading him so correctly. He has stared real criminals into the ground, after all. The silence stretches, even after the waitress brings them two pints, a stew (for Greg) and a lasagne (for Mycroft).

While Greg digs right in, Mycroft simply pushes his food around his plate.  
"Eat," Greg orders firmly, and is a tiny bit surprised when Mycroft actually does.

He is still noticeable subdued, and Greg has a feeling that if he wants to get anything out of him, he has to push _now_.

But he doesn't have to, because Mycroft, avoiding his gaze and picking his lasagne apart, finally speaks. About himself, this time, not about Greg.

"I … I have a younger brother. He's sixteen, and brilliant." Mycroft snorts. "He's always looked up to me, has always thought I was even more intelligent than he." More intelligent than Mycroft? It's obvious that Mycroft is a genius – he notices things no one else does, and is able to piece them together to a coherent story, all in the time span of a few seconds. "I wasn't. Maybe now I am, or will be.

"I … I failed him. I left him alone and now… You have no idea what it's like to be trapped in your own brain.  
To hear your thoughts rattle away, unable to stop them, get a rest from the always turning wheels in your head. I occupy my mind with my work, with other people. But he… he is bored so quickly, always searching for something new. And now he's discovered cocaine." Mycroft looks up, agony etched onto his face. He really must love his brother. "He's sixteen for god's sake!" He drops his head into his hands and huffs a bitter laugh. "It's my fault, really. No matter what mummy might say. Sherly" For a moment Greg wants to frown at the nickname, until he realises that it must be a relic from old times. "admired me; still does, I think. But even I am not enough to ground him. And I introduced him to my 'friends' from uni. They're the only way he possibly could have gotten cocaine. I knew some of them were addicts, but as long as they can pass me information, it doesn't concern me in the least. But now, now he's decided to ruin his brain with this drug, and I can't get through to him."

Mycroft stops, looking dejected. Greg can't help but pity him. He is the epitome of misery, at the moment. But surely it can't be all his fault, can it?

"What makes you think it's your fault alone?" he asks, looking at Mycroft with what he hopes is an earnest look, and not too pitying.  
"Stop pitying me. I don't deserve it." Okay, obviously didn't work. He tries schooling his features immediately, but it doesn't seem to help. "I promised him I'd be there for him, whenever he needs me. And it seems he tried contacting me, but I was in a very important meeting, and me PA didn't relay the message, or even that he'd called and so … I could have stopped him. That's what makes it bad. I could have stopped him, but I wasn't there. I did not _see_ the potential – okay, I did see that he might be in danger of trying it one day, but none of my equations said it would be this soon!"

Greg wants to tell Mycroft that he can't solve people with equations, and he still doesn't think it's Mycroft's fault, but he also knows a lost cause when he sees one, so he doesn't bother state either of his thoughts.

"And your parents? Couldn't they have help?"

Mycroft laughs again, it's a bitter laugh, as though Greg has just stated the most unlikely thing in the world. "Yeah, they could have helped. But daddy is away too often, on business trips and the like, and he always thought Sherl and I were strange and crazy, and mummy … she's also brilliant, but she's autistic." Oh. _Oh._ Mycroft stops for a moment, before latching onto another train of thought, a train laden with guilt.  
"I should never have gone away. I should have stayed. I _knew_ there were problems. I _knew_ mummy wasn't fit for caring for him, but I thought he'd manage. I also managed, didn't I? But Sherl… he's different than I. More different than I thought he was, and all my equations were based on similarities between us."

Mycroft looks absolutely miserable now, but Greg doesn't know what he can do. He can't let this man be alone for tonight, though, that's for sure.

"I'm sure your brother will turn out right, Mycroft," he tries his hand at consolation. Brown eyes look at him, full of hope and a _need_ to trust him. "But first I think you need to get home. Where do you live?"

"Queen's Gate, Knightsbridge," Mycroft answers, and Greg can understand why he adds, "I'll take the bill."

Greg argues with him, and not just half-heartedly, because he has invited Mycroft, but Mycroft simply ignores him, smiles at the waiter politely and gives him an exorbitant tip.

A minute later, they both are in Greg's car again, sitting in more or less companionable silence.  
Greg already anticipates the fifteen minute ride to be spent in silence, but to his surprise, Mycroft speaks up tentatively.

"You … you don't… I mean, thank you. You may have realized that I do not do such things often, so I am entirely unaccustomed with such situations." Greg hears the hint of self-irony in that voice, and suddenly, he wants to hear more of it (the voice, not the irony). "Thank you for listening."

"Don't you have any friends who could help you with such things?" Greg asks, but somehow he doubts it. Mycroft is becoming more aloof and colder by the minute (like there is a wall of ice protecting him from the world), and he can't believe that Mycroft would allow anybody near him, except in a crisis like the almost-suicide.

"Friends? I? No. Sentiment isn't for people like me." Greg barely suppresses the laugh that wants to bubble out of his throat.

"I don't believe you, Mycroft. If sentiment weren't for people like you, why would you have jumped then?" He can feel Mycroft look at him, but it's better to keep his eyes on the street. For some reason, Mycroft is distracting like hell, and Greg has to squash the urge to look him longer. There is something about this man that intrigues him. He wants to know what has made him so … wary, what has made him put up such an impressive wall to appear unmoved, because now, Mycroft's face is perfectly bland, uncaring, untelling, unmoving.

"I never said I didn't _feel_ anything. It would decidedly be better if I didn't, but as it is, I do feel. And that is why I considered taking my own life."

Greg's left hand leaves the steering wheel of its own accord, coming to rest on Mycroft's thigh. It's not as thin as it appeared to be, but sinewy and hard, as Greg squeezes it (in what he hopes is a comforting way). After a moment, when he doesn't remove his hand (his car is automatic and he can steer with one hand, too), a second hand tentatively comes to rest upon his. The palm is smooth, with faint calluses like from holding a stick. It's probably the best thing Greg has ever felt.


	2. Finding Fault

**Author: **Kephiso  
**Title:** A World of Fault  
**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Warnings:** Almost Suicide, AU  
**Pairing:** Mystrade  
**Summary:** Greg Lestrade, Detective Sergeant, always goes to Tower Bridge on the last Friday of the month. But this time, there is something wrong...  
**Notes:** Second Chapter. I'm so happy to be able to upload this... :) Not the best chap, but needed for the next. :)  
I hope I'll be able to upload that soon. (I know, I actually should be working on my SnacoFest story... But, well, I'm so very much into Sherlock right now... :))

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**Finding Fault**

Mycroft's flat is exactly as Greg has imagined it during the car ride. Mycroft's suit alone is probably more worth than what Greg earns in a month (probably even more than what Greg earns in two months, but he thinks it's best not to dwell on such things), so it has been no difficult leap to assume that his flat is also posh and expensive.

It is on the second floor of a grand white building, looking from the outside like a Victorian house. But from the inside, it's the perfect balance between modern and tasteful, and Greg has the strong suspicion that it hasn't been Mycroft who has picked the furniture.

There is security when they enter the building, two men in black with headsets, waiting in the shadows in the hall, checking him thoroughly, before they are allowed to advance to the stairs. Mycroft still has to do a biometric scan to even reveal the keypad to his flat, and Greg's stomach churns at the thought how _important _this young man must be.

The interior is lit by soft golden light, until Mycroft switches on the great headlight. Greg can't hide his curiosity. They are standing in a second entrance hall, its walls lined with a cupboard (to Greg's left hand) and a huge wardrobe (opposite the door) and next to door on Greg's right hand, there is a stand with several umbrellas.

"Drop your shoes here and I'll give you the tour," Mycroft says, looking very much at home between the dark woods of the furniture. It surprises Greg a bit that he is already in his socks; he has imagined Mycroft to be one of the men who wear their designer shoes all day till going to bed.

The tour is quick; Mycroft is obviously tired and emotionally drained, but he makes it interesting still. (Greg does his best not to think about the fact that he'd find probably anything interesting, as long as Mycroft is the one to tell the story)

The flat consists of a living area, a master bedroom and two guestrooms with each a bathroom _en suite_, a toilet, a kitchen, an office and a dining room, and all are spacious with high ceilings, have bright wooden floors and cream coloured walls with dark furniture (except for the bathrooms and the guest toilet, which have grey tiled floors and white furniture).

Before they started the tour, Mycroft has put on tea and preheated his coffee machine (which is big and looks as though it costs as much as Greg's car), and both are ready just in time.

Greg takes a seat on a dark leather couch and waits for Mycroft, the grinding of the coffee machine audible quite clearly. A minute after it has stopped, Mycroft emerges from the kitchen with a small tray of his tea, Greg's coffee, a small can of what is most likely milk, and tiny bowl of sugar. In this regard, Mycroft is a proper Englishman, and Greg has to suppress a smile even as he thinks of what he has stopped the young man from doing, because Mycroft is probably the _epitome_ of an English gentleman, as far as he is concerned, and so the notion alone of him taking his own live seems ridiculous.

Greg prepares his coffee just as usual (a bit of milk and two sugars) and watches Mycroft do his tea (only milk), before he takes a deep breath and asks, quietly, "What are you going to do with your brother now?"

Mycroft takes a sip from his tea, moistens his lip (and damn, he is married and Mycroft isn't his type, and Mycroft's young and vulnerable and uncertain at the moment, but he can't help find it hot, how the pink tongue peaks out and disappears again immediately) and stares out of the window into the darkness of the night. "I have absolutely no idea."

In the end, Greg spends the night in one of the two guestrooms, the one next to the master bedroom. The other option would have been driving home at half past one in the morning, and he really doesn't want to explain himself to his wife just yet.

In the bathroom he finds everything he might need for the night; a fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, a disposable razor, shaving foam, shower gel, shampoo and even some conditioner, and when he gets back to the bedroom, comfortable looking silk pyjamas are lying on his bed.

For a moment he smiles to himself (Mycroft really is the perfect gentleman), but then he strips, puts on the pyjamas and crawls under the duvet.

Within moments, he sinks into wonderfully deep sleep.

"Good morning, Gregory," Mycroft smiles at him, dressed in a blue suit (which is obviously more recently purchased, as it fits him like a second skin), as Greg comes into the kitchen the next morning, still in his pyjamas and with his hair looking like a bird's nest (he knows this, even though he has successfully avoided any mirror this morning, because his hair always looks like that in the morning.).

"Good morning." Only barely he can suppress a yawn, and he is indescribably grateful when Mycroft pushes a cup of coffee into his hand. It has just the right drinking temperature, and it takes Greg a moment to realize that Mycroft must have prepared it exactly to his liking, because it's _perfect._

On the table, a slice of toast is waiting, alongside butter and two different flavours of jam.

"I'm sorry," says Mycroft while refolding the newspaper, "but I fear that is all I can offer. I am not one for breakfast, so my variety of edible items is rather limited."

"No, it's fine. It's all fine, really," Greg is quick to reassure his host. "Thanks that I could kip in your guest room. But, tell me, have you seen my suit? It's not in the room anymore!"

Mycroft looks at him, a slight smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

"I know. I took the liberty of having my PA take care of it."

Greg can only gape at Mycroft for a moment (it must look really gross with his half-chewed bite of toast in his mouth), before he catches himself again, swallows and says, incredulous, "You – you didn't have to do that! I could have stopped by home and fetched a new suit, you didn't –"

"Oh, but I didn't," Mycroft smiles, one eyebrow raised a bit mockingly (Greg is a bit unbalanced by his aloof, smooth exterior. There is literally _nothing_ that reminds him of the distressed young man from the previous evening), "My PA took care of everything. And," he lowers his voice, and for a moment his mask slips away, reveals the desperate older brother, "it's the least I could have done for you. You… I owe you my gratitude for preventing my jump. If you should ever need anything, _anything_ at all, be it a different point of view for one of your cases, a lawyer for your divorce or money, please come to me."

Greg is torn between chuckling and screaming at the man. It is obvious that he is honest and means what he says, but the _way_ he says it… There definitely are some areas where Mycroft still has things left to learn.

"I will keep that in mind. But, one question, what makes you think I need a lawyer? Or want a divorce?" _Not that it's not true_, he adds in his thoughts, because, really, it is. Giselle has long since stopped being the woman he fell in love with, and _it's time to move on,_ like his brother Charley has told him more than once.

"It was only a thought, but you mentioned you weren't happy with your marriage, and your wife certainly isn't, so I guessed – and I didn't want to insult you, but that's how it seemed to me." Mycroft looks at him slightly embarrassed, his cheeks tinged a soft pink (almost imperceptibly, but visible to Greg nonetheless), and Greg has to take pity on him.

"No, it … it was right. But I don't think I'll need a lawyer for that." He can feel his shoulders drop as he thinks of the conversation he has avoided for so long, but he will do it. This weekend. Maybe he has needed Mycroft to remind him it needs to be done.

"Well, then," he says, drinks the rest of his second cup of coffee (just as brilliant as the first) and wants to continue, when there's a light knock on the doorframe.

In it, a girl is standing. She can't be more than sixteen, but she is dressed like an adult, in a tight black business dress with black stockings and high heeled black leather boots. Her hair is black and frames her face loosely, and her eyes are, as far as he can determine, of a rather dark brown. _She must be Spanish, or Latin American, judging from her skin tone and appearance,_ Greg thinks. In her hand is a clothes bag.

"Ah, good morning Aceso" Mycroft says, takes Greg's cup and goes over to the coffee machine. Greg knows he should stop him, if he doesn't want palpitations later in the day – he seriously doubts it's gonna stay by one cup of coffee at work –, but the coffee Mycroft serves is simply too good.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes, and it's Samia, today." She smiles very politely, but… _It's Samia today?_ What problems does this girl have?

"Okay, then, good morning Samia. You should consider texting me your chosen name in advance."

"Where would the fun be there, boss?" She grins, comes into the kitchen and puts the bag over one of the chairs.

Greg already expects some remark about him sitting here only in pyjamas, but the girl doesn't even look at him longer.

"Anything else I can do for you? If not, I'm off to the gym."

"Ah, no, nothing, just give Lily my regards." He thinks for a moment, before he adds, "On further thought though, there is one thing you could do." Mycroft looks at her for a moment.

"Tell Jerome to get two cars ready, one to New Scotland Yard and the other one to the office. I trust you will meet up with me there later?" They apparently have forgotten Greg, but he thinks the exchange is far too interesting to interrupt.

"Yes, of course, Sir. Well, Sir," now she does look at Greg, and he can't help feel like he has committed a crime. For a girl maybe half his age she is pretty straight forward, "there is something I should tell you." She keeps her gaze fixed on Greg. "Two thinks, actually. First, don't ever leave your security team behind again." Her eyes snap to Mycroft, and she looks livid, "And don't ever try to take your own live again. Don't. Think of what would happen if you were gone." A moment later her face is an impassive mask again, and she strides towards the door, surprisingly easy in her high heels.

"And, Detective Sergeant? Thank you for stopping my employer from a colossally stupid action." She finally leaves, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, _If you claim once more that the Holmes brothers are extraordinarily clever…_

Greg looks from her retreating form to Mycroft and back to her.

"Who was _that_?" he finally asks.

"That was my new PA-in-training. Extraordinary girl…" Mycroft smiles wryly, in spite of the scolding this girl has given him just a minute before.

"She – she's like, what, seventeen?" Greg splutters, and Mycroft cocks his head, self-assured.

"Sixteen, to be honest. She's got temperament… That girl will be a very good asset to my forces."

"Sixteen?" Greg echoes incredulously, and obviously startles Mycroft out of his thoughts with it, "Isn't that a bit young? I mean, she's not even as old as your brother!"

"But four times as reliable. And I started at her age, too. Actually, even a year sooner, nine years ago. If you want to get to the top, you need to start soon!"

Greg as mountains of questions, but Mycroft interrupts him before he can even start.

"Here is your coffee, your suit is over there. I fear I have a meeting in an hour, I have to leave." Mycroft grabs his jacket that has been hanging over the back of his chair, shrugs it on. "Your suit is in the bag over the chair." He turns to leave, hesitating at the door.

"Don't hurry. The security will leave you out of this flat, and I trust you are not so stupid as to try and lift something. Have a nice day."

"Have a nice day," Greg echoes, slightly dazed by the hurry Mycroft suddenly exudes and still with his coffee in hand."

"And don't forget about the pneumonia!" The door falls shut with a click, and Greg is left alone in a too big flat. With a sigh he drains his third cup of coffee and stands up.

His phone, he realizes, has been in his suit jacket but – oh, it's lying on the kitchen counter. He grabs it, sends a short text to the nurse maid Giselle has engaged for their daughters and starts for the bath.

Having Mycroft wash his suit is nice, really, but that suit is a cheap one, fits only acceptably and has a singed cuff, and today is his first court hearing where he has to speak all by himself. Usually, an Inspector does the hearing, but his promotion is not far off and DI Ferguson has given him the offer to do it.

He needs to be dressed in the right manner for that, so he has to stop by his house anyway.

After shaving and brushing his teeth, Greg proceeds to look at the bag. When he slides the zipper open, he realizes immediately that something is wrong.

As mentioned, his suit is cheap, and it's black, but the suit in the bag is of a very expensive making and has fine pinstripe in blue over it. As he takes it out of the bag, a small piece of paper flutters to the floor.

_A small token of thanks for your assistance – it's always so hard to keep your eyes on the children.  
This should fit you nicely._  
_Samia_

And all Greg can do is smile and shake his head – both of them obviously have no idea how to say _thank you_ in a correct fashion.

"Gregory! How nice of you to show your face at your home once, too!" Giselle's voice is bitter, mocking and Greg suddenly wishes he were back at work – or even better, at Mycroft's.

Work has been good today, first the court hearing (went off without incident; suspect is in jail now and case solved) and then a press conference (went off with only a little incident – one of the reporters had been asking questions they couldn't yet answer, but Ferguson had handled that easily), and all Greg wants now is a cup of nice hot coffee, a shower and a bed.

He still has to decide what to do about the suit. It's been amazing to wear that, and everybody has remarked on how good it looked on him, but he can hardly keep, now can he?  
No matter how much money Mycroft might make a month (and it had to be a lot), this is far too expensive to keep.

"Gregory!" Giselle is not pleased that he has zoomed out, "Where have you been last night? And where did you get that suit?"

Greg rubs his hand over his eyes. "I stopped a young man from jumping from Tower Bridge and kipped in his guest bedroom. His PA vanished my suit and gave me this as a _thank you_ token," Greg explains, but it sounds slightly ridiculous even in his own ears. _He offered us a lawyer for our divorce_, almost slips past his lips, but they haven't talked about that yet, and he doesn't want to bring it up so immediately. (He also, for some reason, doesn't want to bring it up, if it's possible, with anything connected to last evening in the same sentence)

"A _Thank You token_?" Giselle repeats incredulously, then laughs, loud and shrill. Greg can feel a headache forming at the base of his skull. "A _Thank You token_? Why should I believe that? Why don't you simply tell me you've got a new lover? Then you didn't have to feed me new lies all the time, like working longer!"

"Giselle, I don't lie when I said that! I-"

She stops laughing suddenly. "Greg," she says, and the shortened form of his name is icy-cold and sharp like a shard of glass, "I want a divorce."

For a moment, Greg can't breathe. His mind is reeling – he hasn't expected her to say it quite so outright so soon.

"But-"

"The man I loved has disappeared, and in his place is a man I barely know. A man who works _double shifts_ all month, if he's to be believed, a man who doesn't know what to do with his daughters who adore him." She looks at him, her green eyes laced with pain, "I tried, Greg, I really tried to cope with it. But I can't do it anymore. And… there's someone else." She doesn't look at him, avoids his eyes. It's better like this, he knows, because – she just has pulled out the floor from under his feet, and he knows his mouth is hanging open. He tries to wrap his head around the thought that his wife (about whom he has thought as anything but sexual for _years_) has _somebody else_. It's hard.

"I … we haven't had anything yet, because I don't want to cheat on you, but Greg, this is not what I want. Not anymore." She sounds pleading, willing him to understand. He wonders, _was it ever what you wanted?_, but doesn't voice it. His whole body is numb, in shock and he can only nod.

She looks at him once more, before she turns around, says, "You best sleep in the guestroom tonight," and leaves for their – pardon, _her_ – bedroom.

Greg's standing in the hallway, aware of the huge eyes of his daughters, and when the numbness wanes, a feeling settles in his whole body that he has last felt some ten years ago (when he finished school): freedom.


	3. Emergency Rescue

**Author: **Kephiso  
**Title:** A World of Fault  
**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Warnings:** Almost Suicide, AU  
**Pairing:** Mystrade  
**Summary:** Greg Lestrade, Detective Sergeant, always goes to Tower Bridge on the last Friday of the month. But this time, there is something wrong...  
Note: Sorry for this long, long wait! But I honestly was busy with internship (I didn't even have ten hours on a string at home, and those were spent sleeping, mostly!), but now that there are holidays… :D

**Emergency Rescue**

In the end, Greg opts for bringing the suit back to Mycroft (after having paid the horrendous sum for cleaning it), and he hands it to the security men behind the front door (not the same as last time).

Greg has indeed taken the guestroom, and right now his back informs him of exactly _why_ it's only the guestroom. He needs to look at a flat. Soon.

It's the first thing he does that weekend – his double shifts still have not ended because Thompson, the colleague he substitutes, has a longer hospital stay (something about intervertebral discs) and he and Giselle still have not really spoken to each other.

To his surprise, there is one free not far from Scotland Yard and he rents it almost before he has finished the tour the landlord is giving him. His new flat is neither as posh and grand as Mycroft's nor as cosy and lovely-furnitured as his late house, but it's cheap and, as he has already mentioned, in direct vicinity of his work place, so it's perfect for him.

It's also not too big, consisting of a bedroom, a bathroom and a kitchen with a table and two chairs; just enough for a man who spends fourteen to sixteen hours a day at work anyway. All the rooms are rather small, and the bed is a single bed, but Greg doubts he will be bringing anybody to his flat soon, so that doesn't matter, either.

He moves his things that same evening – he doesn't have much that he needs; Giselle will collect the rest of his things so that he can fetch them sometime later the next week. He is glad he can take the flat that fast, because the atmosphere is icy cold at the house; he doesn't know what to say (he's always been crap at break-ups) and Giselle makes a point out of caring for their daughters all by herself. _She doesn't need me_, he realizes, _she had made do long enough without me. What's the difference if I'm spending the night also away?_ They haven't really talked in what feels like an eternity, but may just (he scoffs at the word in his thoughts) have been a year.

Isabelle, the younger of his two daughters, of course isn't old enough yet to understand what's going on, but she clearly feels something, because she just won't stop crying all evening, but Dominique watches him leave with huge, sad eyes that make his chest clench painfully.

He drops to his knees in front of her, bringing himself to eyelevel with her. "Domi," he says, using the nickname he's given her what seems like ages ago, "I love you. And I want you to keep one thing in mind: You are not at fault for this. No matter what you'll hear later in life, this is my fault, because I used to work so long. Okay?  
And please, take care of Isa for me." He looks at her earnestly and she nods solemnly, a tear rolling down her cheek. He hugs her, kisses Isa's cheek and leaves, strangely aware of the prying gazes of their neighbours.

His things are packed away quickly; it's only some suits, a few books and his toiletries, and so he's left with a free Saturday afternoon. For a moment he considers calling his rugby mates, but then he settles himself on the couch with a nice book and a not so nice coffee out of his cheap filter coffee maker. It's been far too long since he's had time just for himself, he realizes as he starts onto the mystery novel.

The suit is back on Monday.

But not in a bag on his front door or even as a parcel or anything, but hanging neatly in his wardrobe next to his cheap everyday suits.

For a moment he thinks, brain still sleep addled, about being exasperated, or even angry or outraged, but then decides it's not worth the energy.

He simply shakes his head, since – admit it: Neither Mycroft nor his PA have any idea of what's proper, it seems, because the suit hasn't been there the evening before and he's been sleeping in the same room the wardrobe is in, and he hasn't woken.

He does admit to feeling a bit uneasy, but then again: He _has_ seen Mycroft's status before (just think of the security team in front of his house, or the fleet of drivers and cars he has to have at his command) and it can only been him or the ominous PA with the changing names, so he squashes his worry. He hasn't known Mycroft for a long time (_one evening and one morning_, his mind supplies unbidden), but somehow he's been intrigued and fascinated and his gut tells him to just _trust_ the man already, and his gut rarely is wrong.

He pointedly leaves the good suit hanging there and takes the one next to it – it's cheaper by far, but he isn't a DI yet, so he doesn't need a formal suit for a perfectly normal workday.

By evening, his _perfectly normal workday_ has turned into a nightmare. A corpse has shown up, a young starlet recently started on the stairs to fame, with no leads or motive or even a trace of the murderer.

Greg leaves Scotland Yard exhausted beyond comparison and it's close to midnight when he reaches his bed. He foregoes dinner and drops straight into bed.

Unfortunately, the rest of his week is equally chaotic; two new corpses turn up, but they're seemingly unconnected (there is no similarity between them, neither in their background, nor in the way they were murdered), except for the passion flower lying in the vicinity of the victims and Greg is but grateful he isn't the DI in charge – Ferguson is irritable and the lack of sleep clearly visible on his face, and as far as Greg knows, he's working about eighteen to twenty hours a day. This case will probably be Ferguson's promotion – if he manages to solve it.

By Wednesday the week after, they still have come no step further in their enquiries. The victims (whose count has gone up to five) have very different backgrounds, living situations and literally _nothing_ that links them.

Ferguson is tempted to treat them as unconnected, Greg knows, and he likes to explain the flowers away – in two of the cases, flower shops were near, so it wouldn't be surprising when flowers were lying on the ground, he said, in the direct surroundings of the other two murders the flower grows, and in the last case … well, maybe it was just lying around.

_Just lying around_, Greg scoffs under his breath as he's heading home, the day called short unexpectedly. He's free for that day and the next two, Ferguson has insisted on everyone who's been working for the last one and a half weeks to take a prolonged weekend to _bring fresh opinions into the matter and let you, who have helped very much already, rest yourselves_.

Greg has just come out of the shower and settled down with a beer on his small couch, relishing in the time for himself (he wonders about Mycroft and his PA, about his daughters – is it normal that he barely misses them? Maybe, he's not been spending much time with them for a year – about the linearity of his life – standing up, drinking filter coffee [nowhere near as good as Mycroft's], going to work, eating takeaway, taking a shower, dropping straight into bed) when his mobile chimes.

There aren't that many people who would call him at that time of the day – most of his acquaintances are at work, so actually there's only his colleagues remaining, and he really doesn't want to take it – but when he looks at the caller ID, it's a number he doesn't recognize.

Curious, he takes the call.

"Hello?" he offers after a second of silence.

"Good afternoon, Detective Sergeant Lestrade," a young female voice says, maybe a bit insecure. Lestrade feels as though he should recognize it, but he can't attach it to a face. Maybe it is somebody from work? One of the younger constables, maybe?

"Who's there?" he asks, when no further information is coming.

"It's Philena – but you might know me under the name Samia. Mycroft's PA," she clarifies after a moment. He can hear her take a deep breath, "we… we might have a problem and I'd be very, very grateful if you could spare the time to assist me." It's obvious that she's not used to asking for help from anybody, and there is a strain in her voice that makes cold spikes of panic shoot down his spine. He shudders.

"Where to?" The world suddenly has narrowed down, there's only him, the problem and the search for a solution. It's why he likes his job, these moments of absolute clarity.

"There should be a car in front of your door any minute. If you'd excuse me now, I have to make sure my boss doesn't do anything too stupid until you arrive." The line disconnects with a click, leaving Greg to wonder, _What the hell has happened?_  
Of course, he doesn't get an answer, so he stands up and changes his clothes (he really doesn't want to visit Mycroft and wear an old pair of too tight and torn jeans and a beat-up shirt)

After standing in front of his wardrobe, unable to decide what to wear, Greg seriously has to fight the urge to bang his head against the wall. _It's not a date_, he has to tell himself again and again, _so get over yourself and simply put something on! Hell, it was arranged for by his_ PA _, for God's sake!_

In the end he grabs a comfortable pair of grey linen trousers and a button-down shirt (he really has to go shopping for new every-day shirts, he realizes). The moment he closes the last button, his doorbell rings.

With a muffled curse, he slips into his shoes, grabs his keys and bounds down the stairs.

A man in a neat black suit with clichéd black sunglasses is waiting for him, looking totally out of place.

The man – the driver, as Greg realizes quickly – nods at him, pulls open the door and waits for Greg to climb into the back seat, before closing the door behind him and taking the front seat.

The drive to Mycroft's flat is over almost too soon, and Greg can't help but worry.

If Samia (or however she calls herself today) has called him, how desperate must she be?  
While he'd really like the answer to that, he's a tiny bit afraid of it – because a man like Mycroft doesn't do things half-way, and he _has_ already tried to take his own life…

The stairs up to Mycroft's flat have never felt so long and short at the same time.

His young PA-in-training (Philena, she calls herself today) is waiting for him at the door. She nods gravely at him, a plastic bag in her right hand. "Just all the pills I could find in the flat," she explains as she pushes past him and down the stairs. "I really do hope that you can talk some sense into him."

Greg carefully treads into the flat. Shards of glass are strewn all over the floor, making his heart seize. Drops of blood are on some of them, leaving a red trail to the bathroom, from where he can hear suppressed sobs and something that sounds awfully close to retching.

Mycroft is curled up on the floor in front of the toilet, a shard of glass in his hand (the edge of which is red with his blood) and his trousers and shirt soaked with blood. The whole room smells of bile, and Greg has to suppress the urge to throw up his dinner.

"Go 'way, Dani," he says without looking up, before a new wave of dry heaves seizes him, and it takes Greg a moment to realize that _Dani_ must be Samia (or Philena, or however she calls herself on other days – maybe Dani is her real name?).

"I'm not Dani." He crosses the distance to Mycroft with a few strides, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees Mycroft's face. It's gaunt and hollow, deep black shadows under his eyes and smudges of something (Greg dearly hopes it's not blood, too) on his cheeks.

He looks downright desperate and it makes Greg's heart clench. He has no idea what to do, has never been in any situation similar. But – wait, he _has_ been in a similar situation, although he's been in Mycroft's place and not sick with grief and guilt (at least he hopes Mycroft is only sick with grief and guilt and not with some drug), but with a cocktail of alcohol and date rape drugs. What has Giselle done with him at that time?

_Oh._

"Come on, what you need now is a shower," Greg assesses, but all Mycroft does is stare at him with dead eyes. With a sigh, he flushes the toilet and pulls Mycroft to his feet.

"Strip," he orders, only slightly surprised when Mycroft does as he is told (all the while hanging onto Greg), stepping out of his underwear completely unselfconscious.

_Mycroft_, Greg thinks, _would be a very handsome man, if he ate decently, _and it takes all of Greg's strength to stop staring. It's also slightly unfortunate for him that Mycroft is practically hanging in Greg's arms, suggesting _other positions_ with close bodily contact.

"Get into the shower," he already wants to say, when he registers the still bleeding cuts on Mycroft's forearms and hands.  
"Where can I find your first aid kit?" he instead asks.

Mycroft shrugs, teeth clenched and obviously fighting another wave of nausea.

Realizing that Mycroft will not be very helpful, he makes him sit down on the (now closed) toilet and starts his search. It doesn't take him long to find it (it's under the sink, the second place he looks) and so he starts cleaning the cuts. Not that they're very dirty, but there are still tiny shards of glass in them, like Mycroft has used his hands to smash it.

When that's done, he tries again to get Mycroft into the shower, but all the young man does is lean heavily onto him. Greg isn't even sure he can stand on his own, so he also strips until he is standing there only in his underwear (he refuses to become naked completely, because he is uncertain whether he still could restrain himself then) and steers Mycroft into the shower.

The water comes pleasantly warm instantly and Mycroft at least manages to wash himself. They stay under the spray until the water stops being brown with blood and the stench of vomit has come out of Mycroft's hair and off his skin.

Greg dries them both off, again very aware of their closeness, puts bandages on Mycroft's hands and arms and helps him put on pyjamas. Since his pants are wet and clinging to his skin uncomfortably, he starts for his own bedroom (_Mycroft's guestroom_, he corrects himself), when a soft whimper from the toilet makes him stop dead. Mycroft looks lost and desperate and so young and vulnerable that something in Greg's chest clenches again.

"What?" he inquires gently, taking a step into Mycroft's direction. When he is within touching distance, Mycroft's hand shoots out, grabs his wrist and doesn't let go. His eyes are huge and pleading, but he doesn't say anything.

"You don't want to be alone?" Greg guesses – correctly, as it turns out. Mycroft nods, looking like a five year old more than like a twenty-five year old. "Then come with me," he sighs, "I need to put on something dry."

Of course, he doesn't just take Mycroft with him, but rather carries him; the young man is unresponsive to everything except for Greg leaving him.

He changes clothes quickly and steers Mycroft into the master bedroom, seating him on the huge king-size bed.

Mycroft has yet to let go of at least one of his arms – even while he has changed, Mycroft has somehow managed (Greg's actually not sure _how_) to cling on to him, like he's afraid Greg's going to vanish. Not that he has any intention of doing that, but he'd like to get at least _some_ sleep. And that most likely includes extricating himself from Mycroft's grip and leaving for the guest bedroom. Or so Greg thinks.


End file.
